


Moonbeams

by EA_Lakambini



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Interpret the relationship as you will, Introspection, short and sweet, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: One moonlit evening, Crowley is asked by Aziraphale to slow down during a drive. Crowley observes, and reflects.(Companion piece to "Sunlight".)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: The Ineffable Con 2





	Moonbeams

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in a writing rut for months, but managed to get out of it to write a tiny one-shot.  
> This is my entry to The Ineffable Con 2 Zine!
> 
> This story was written to be a companion piece to ["Sunlight"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134164), but each can be read on its own.
> 
> Many thanks to [Raechem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raechem/pseuds/Raechem) and to [burnttongueontea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnttongueontea/pseuds/burnttongueontea) for the beta. All mistakes are mine.

Evening has long since fallen, the inky expanse of sky interrupted by pinpricks of stars and the reaching gleam of the pale moon. Far below, the dark is pierced by the unearthly bright headlights of a Bentley, zooming from a countryside road and heading onto the motorway back to London. Crowley is hitting well above 90 miles an hour, while Aziraphale is seated primly in the passenger seat, resolutely _not_ looking at the speedometer.

“Couldn’t you drive a little slower?” Aziraphale asks, but Crowley can hear the humor in his tone. This is a conversation they’ve had on many a drive, and the answer is always the same. Crowley knows how this will play out, and so he performs his part.

“No, why would I? You’re the one who wanted to be back in the bookshop before ten, angel. After attending _Shakespeare in the Park_ performed in an estate 60 miles away,” Crowley replies. He waits for Aziraphale to snip back with his usual pointed remark about inconvenient discorporation. Contrary to expectation, the angel merely chuckles, then slightly reclines in his seat, resting his head against the cool window of the car.

Crowley chances a look from out of the corner of his eyes. This late at night, the window is black as obsidian, with the headlights from other cars appearing more like comet streaks in the Bentley’s wake; Aziraphale glows softly against the dark. Unlike the painful brightness of Heaven – overly polished white and unyielding and sharp and empty – Aziraphale is moonlight, all softness and warmth, his worn overcoat and pale skin swathed in shadows, muting them into gentle twilight and quiet dusk.

“Well, maybe I don’t want to go back yet; here is good, too,” the angel murmurs softly. And for some godforsaken reason – which all of Crowley’s reasons are, because, demon – Crowley feels a warmth in his chest at the words, and he cannot help himself. He turns to look at Aziraphale and silently marvels at the sight, the _reality_ of the angel now by his side.

Crowley knows that he is meant to thrive in darkness. There is no more starlight or shining moon, not for him, after he plunged through blackness and into flame. And through the eons, he has made it his element, garbing himself and relishing in it, even tinting the way he sees the world with it. But somehow, no shadows he ever beheld in the gloom of Hell or in the lies of Heaven, or even behind his own glasses, feel as _part_ of him as this, Aziraphale here in the dark, shadows and moonbeams alternating in their caress over their bodies; encompassing them completely, intimately.

The angel – soldier of Heaven, of light, of goodness – remaining with a demon. Willing and hoping, in the darkness.

And Crowley can take him at his words. He could make a highly illegal U-turn and head away from the city, take them towards worn paths rather than asphalt. He could pull to a screeching halt and quip about _not going back at all, have it your way, angel_. He could get off the motorway and head towards some sleepy old town, to a quaint little bed-and-breakfast that would miraculously have the angel’s favorite cocoa in the kitchenette. He could speed up to overtake the annoying lorries in their lane, then slow down right in front, just to irritate the drivers and to make Aziraphale roll his eyes. He could even pull over to the hard shoulder, pull demonic shadows around the Bentley, and let the evening pass them by. Whatever he _chooses_.

Crowley smiles and takes his foot off the accelerator. The Bentley slows, and outside, the shapes of cars and buildings and humanity are no longer a blur. The lights from the approaching city spill into the car rather than streak past it, neon glow mixing with silvery moonbeams. Pale light falls on the angel’s white-blonde curls, like a halo shrouded in mist.

“I’d rather stay with you,” Aziraphale continues, simply, surely, like 6,000 years could not have led to any other moment but this one.

Aziraphale looks at the dropping needle on the speedometer, and absolutely _glows_. For a moment Crowley remembers nebulae coming alight in his palms, stardust slipping through his fingers; in all his memories through the darkness, they were never as bright as this.

Somehow, even with Crowley’s distracted and decelerated driving, they make it back to Soho. Before ten, of course, because Crowley could never say no to his angel. He parks the Bentley in its usual spot, opens the car door and saunters out. The other man steps out as well and looks questioningly at him; their eyes meet, and Aziraphale smiles.

“I do hope you will stay a while, my dear?” the angel says, slowing in front of the bookshop doors. Crowley nods in assent, and the bookshop locks fall open as the two of them stand at the threshold. The night is dark, yes, and cold, but behind the bookshop windows a demonic miracle has lit the angelic lamps.

Aziraphale reaches over to take Crowley’s hand, entwining their fingers. Firm, loving, sure, _here._

Under the moonlight, they stand together, and the angel smiles brighter still.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
